


Stubborn Charge

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Healer!Aragorn, Healing, Hurt!Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Overprotective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25715701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When Faramir injures himself by accident and ignores his well-being, it is up to Aragorn to take care of him.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Mentioned Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undomiel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	Stubborn Charge

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea and I had to write it out. My Faramir, Sheenaz, checked it out. She didn't send any orcs my way so I think it's passable ;) 
> 
> Hannon le, Sheenaz! <3

Even if Faramir knew about the man following him, he wouldn’t be able to shut the door in his face. It is not something one does to one’s king, after all. But, being oblivious to Aragorn walking silently behind him, the prince directs his steps to the royal wing of the citadel, wincing and cursing heavily with every move of his left foot. It is good that he has agreed to move into the royal wing - it is much closer to the council room than his previous quarters were, and, limping as he is, he may actually make it to his bedchamber before he falls down. He is almost at his door, already taking a slight turn to grab the handle- 

“Further down the corridor, I think.”

The voice startles him before he recognizes its owner. He twists around, gritting his teeth when his foot drags against the stony floor. Even wrapped in a bandage and tucked neatly into his shoe, it still sends sparks of pain shooting up to his ankle.    
“My king!” He exhales, watching Aragorn’s approach.    
“We’re alone here, Faramir,” he points out, his eyes flickering to his steward’s feet. “Has something happened? No,” Aragorn holds up one hand to halt any protest that may arise. “Do  _ not _ answer that, it is plain as day that you are hurt.” Being commanded to remain silent, Faramir does just that, biting his tongue. They stand there, seconds trickling by like a lazy stream, before Aragorn looks up at him again. Faramir frowns. 

“I am tired,” the prince starts carefully, knowing well that it is late afternoon and his usual sleeping hours are closer to midnight. “If there is anything you wish of me, then please state it. I should go to bed.” This makes Aragorn nod in agreement, and the prince raises an eyebrow in surprise.  _ Surely this argument could not be so easily won?  _   
“Right you are, my dear. Further down the corridor,” the king repeats, stepping forward and grabbing Faramir’s elbow, steering him towards his own bedchamber. 

It takes them only a minute to arrive at Aragorn’s quarters and then, he is ushered inside, led to the bed and unceremoniously pushed down to lay flat on it. Before he can protest, or indeed gather what exactly is happening, the king is at his feet, taking his boots off, eyeing his left foot still wrapped in white linen.    
_ “What _ has happened?” Aragorn asks, unwrapping his leg slowly. He won’t risk hurting Faramir further, and, not knowing what was underneath the bandage, there is a substantial risk of that. Once the material falls off and is thrown to the floor to be picked up later, the king scowls in disapproval.    
“I stepped on a nail,” Faramir says quickly, feeling his cheeks becoming hot. It sounds ridiculous, when stated like this, and he looks to the side. “I was overlooking the repairs near the Craftsmen Hall and there was an accident. A man was buried under the rubble and we went to help him. I didn’t really have time to look under my feet and…  _ ow!” _ He winces, trying to jerk away on instinct when Aragorn presses at the sole of his foot. 

“I am sorry,” the king mutters in apology, then continues his examination. Faramir’s foot is covered with dried and fresh blood, and it is clearly swollen. Aragorn frowns, then gets up, throwing his steward a meaningful look over his shoulder. “Do  _ not  _ move.” 

Shrugging, Faramir obeys. He lies back among the pillows, an unusual occurrence during the day - they usually spend their nights together in the royal bed,  sharing little words and many caresses under the moonlight .  To be here in the light of day, with his king walking around and gathering supplies from different parts of his chamber is so surreal that, had it not been for Faramir’s hurting foot, he would have trouble believing it.

Shortly, Aragorn is back, a bowl of water hastily grabbed from the adjacent bathing room in one hand, a soft cloth in the other. He places both on a small side table next to the bed and goes away again, fetching herbs, bottles, and a set of mortar and pestle. Once he has everything gathered on the bed, he sits down next to Faramir’s feet and starts to clean the blood away. The task is mercifully short and soon, the prince is wincing again as the king prods at the wound, a surprised cry escaping him when he realizes the nail went not only into the sole of Faramir’s foot, but also completely through it. There is another wound on the top, smaller but still substantial, right above Faramir’s toes. The prince grits his teeth as Aragorn examines it, then sighs with relief when his foot is placed on a hastily grabbed cushion. 

“The nail was big,” Aragorn observes, and Faramir nods in agreement.    
“A roofing nail, yes,” the prince mutters out.    
“And rusty,” the king adds, wincing at the dark stain maring the wound.    
“Yes.”    
“It went clean through your foot.”    
“Yes.”    
“And you didn’t think to come to me?” There is a tone of offense in Aragorn’s voice, but there is also something else, something that makes Faramir suddenly feel warm. They may be spending their nights together, but there were never any promises or talks about  _ what _ exactly they are. This particular tone the prince has heard before, in the wee hours of the morning, when Anor is not yet fully up. Aragorn has murmured quiet, incoherent words using the same tender and shaky voice when he thought he wouldn’t be heard. 

“I… I didn’t think it would get that bad,” the steward says finally, not liking the silence that fell between them. Aragorn only scowls at him, then goes back to cleaning the wound. He is efficient and almost too quick at first, but when Faramir cries out in pain, his fingers become gentle, and the hands used to holding Anduril or browsing hastily through old treaties suddenly turn into the hands of a healer. The touch morphs from cool and detached to intimate and careful so quickly that Faramir thinks he must have missed the transition in-between one blink of an eye and another.    
“You should have come to me immediately,” Aragorn chides, getting up and fetching fresh water. Once he’s back, he grabs the mortar and a few different herbs, some of which Faramir recognizes. All of them are dried and easy to crush between experienced fingers, and the prince can see a copious amount of yarrow and goldenrod being thrown inside the mortar. There is something that looks like dried yellow daisies, too, and a few others that Faramir has seen Aragorn use before in the Houses of Healing, but knows no name of. The king is soon done and takes the pestle, sitting again on the bed and grinding the herbs to a fine powder. 

“I rinsed the wound and wrapped it,” Faramir says, mostly to pass the time. “Obviously, it did not work.”   
“No,” Aragorn quips, then sighs, his shoulders relaxing somewhat. “I am sorry, dear heart, but the way you overlook yourself can make me quite angry,” he explains slowly. Faramir shrugs.    
“It has worked before, at least with battle wounds.”    
“I know. I just wish you’d come to me when it became apparent that something was wrong… I would hate to find out that I have to cut your foot off because the wound festered.” Aragorn says quietly, and there is a visible shudder running through him. He looks haunted suddenly, and Faramir has a fleeing thought of the Rangers of the North.  _ Did he have to do it before? _

Before the prince can pursue this line of thought, however, Aragorn raises again and adds a few spoons of water to the mixture he has been grinding in the mortar. He stirs it until it forms a paste, then covers Faramir’s foot with it, being extremely careful when applying it to the wound. It has started to bleed again, and the king soothingly adds that it is good, that it will clean itself thus. 

They wait for a few long minutes for the paste to dry somewhat, and the time is filled with Aragorn putting away his herbs and other supplies, then retrieving fresh bandages. He wraps them around Faramir’s foot, delicate fingers moving over tender skin, before they lower it carefully back on the cushion.   
“Are you comfortable like this?” The king asks, inclining his head and indicating Faramir’s position on the pillows.   
“Quite comfortable, yes.” The prince nods, before he realizes what his king is implying. “I cannot stay here, though!” He adds quickly, trying to raise. Aragorn’s hand stops him from getting up, freshly cleaned fingers splaying over his chest and pushing him down again.   
“Yes you can. You will,” the king says, smiling. “It’s a royal decree, Lord Steward.”   
“But…” 

This, to Faramir’s mind, cannot happen. They may spend their nights in this very bed, but to spend the rest of the afternoon - late as it is - and the incoming evening in it? To lounge about in the royal bedchamber while the king will inevitably return to his tasks?  _ To usurp the place at his king’s side with the king absent? _

“Please, love,” Aragorn pleads quietly, sitting down on the mattress right next to Faramir’s hip. The endearment flows so naturally from him that the prince doesn’t register it at first. When he does, he looks at the king in astonishment. _They have never talked about it._ There are hopes - yes - desperate yearning in his heart and incredible visions in his mind, mostly getting to him during cold nights when the matters of state keep them apart. But those have never been voiced, there has never been any validation given to them through solid words and brave deeds.

“I would rather have you here, where I can supervise your recovery, than off in your chambers doing Eru knows what. I know you will not be able to just rest, not with all those documents littering your desk. And your leg  _ needs _ resting,” the king goes on, seemingly not realizing what he has said. Faramir blinks at him owlishly.    
“What did you call me?” He asks finally, stopping whatever Aragorn wanted to say. The king frowns in confusion, looking for a moment as if he wants to request an explanation be made, before his face clears up.    
“I called you what I have been calling you in my head for the past few months, dear heart,” he says softly, leaning in and stealing a kiss. Faramir freezes, not in shock at the action, but in a surprised exhilaration at doing it in the light of day. “This is why you scare me so much with your disregard when it comes to your own health,” Aragorn explains, one hand traveling to Faramir’s hair, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “I love you so much that seeing you in pain hurts me also.” 

To this, the prince has no answer, and he leans forward, capturing Aragorn’s lips in a long, deep kiss. It feels like a promise, like Elessar’s royal seal marking a decree agreed upon and signed. When he pulls away, Aragorn is smiling.    
“Can you grant me a liberty, my prince?” He asks with a merry glimmer in his eyes and a dangerous grin forming on his lips.    
“Anything. You are the king, and even if you weren’t, I would still agree on anything you wanted,” Faramir says breathlessly, feeling slightly dizzy from their shared intimacy. Aragorn clicks his tongue in disapproval, then continues.    
“You need to be more critical towards me, love. I am a king, not one of the Valar. I do make mistakes, you know?” And then he smiles again. “The liberty is easy, and only partly related to your poor foot. Live with me?” He asks, hope shining through him. 

Faramir laughs quietly, hearing the preposterous proposal. He reigns himself in, however, when he realizes that Aragorn is serious.    
“I already do. We even share the royal wing, do we not?” He answers with a question, and the king shakes his head.    
“This is not what I meant. Are you not tired of sneaking in and out of different rooms? Of fearing to be seen with me in the dead of the night?” He inquires, trying to keep his voice level, but it’s clear to Faramir that there is a note of desperation underneath all that calmness.    
“You are serious.” The prince’s eyes widen. “What would people say?”    
“You know well that, while not a public event, it is general knowledge that some men lay with men. It is not prohibited,” Aragorn says, his voice hushed. His hand migrates to Faramir’s and grips it tightly, almost as if he fears the prince may wanish. Faramir squeezes his fingers reassuringly, hoping to dispel some of the uncertainty.    
“It is true, but that is not what I meant. What of the queen?”    
“Arwen sailed, Faramir,” the king reminds him pointedly.    
“Surely people will demand that you marry again. Gondor needs heirs…”   
“Ai, that is true. And I will think upon it when it becomes an issue. There are ways…” With that, Aragorn shakes his head quickly. “I shall not marry another woman, Faramir, for half of my heart belongs to Arwen. The other half is yours, if you’ll have it,” he adds, gazing into the prince’s eyes. “What say you?” 

It takes a long moment for Faramir to answer, even if he knows what he wants, what he has always wanted. His heart is beating wildly and Aragorn is still looking at him with that crushingly hopeful expression, and there is no way the prince would deny them the future they can have.    
“Yes.” 

The king kisses him so deeply he forgets all about heirs, queens, Gondor, and his hurting foot. 


End file.
